


Bound

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 05:41:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15333036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Eldigan is well aware that choice can be a lie and freedom, a myth.





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Invincible](https://twitter.com/InvincibleZine) charity zine.

Twenty paces. That was the size of the cell he was in: twenty paces south and north, twenty east and west. Or so he assumed. A thin, wintry smile flickered and died on Eldigan's lips. It was not, after all, as if he could see the sun to note the cardinal points.

Ten paces carried him, the irons jangling hollowly, back to the cell's low pallet and he flung himself across the thing with a stifled curse as pain like fire lanced across his back. How had it come to this --

He knew exactly how, of course.

_But there's no other way. I have no choice._

Choice. Yes, that was a pleasant thought, wasn't it; a flight of fancy to pass the time while he stared at cold stone walls and felt the damp sink into his bones, felt the irons bite at his wrists. Eldigan closed his eyes briefly, drew one shaking -- just a tremor, just a hint -- hand down his face. Choice was something he did not have, and could not.

Not and still maintain his oaths.

Not when he was called to honour not only his _own_ oaths of fealty, but that of the very blood in his veins ... Blood that the king may very well intend to spill in a fit of spiteful pique.

Like a waking nightmare the spectre of Chagall's face, white with outrage, swam before his eyes behind closed lids. Clenching his fists, Eldigan fought down the unseemly surge of anger at the memory -- at the _dishonour_ of being stripped of Mystletainn as he was marched into the bowels of the donjon. The irons, he could bear; let him carry those badges of his imprisonment. But to be, not only stripped of the emblem of his fealty, but of the holy blade itself, no matter how necessary --

He'd reached out, reflexively, to reclaim the grim blade.

And that had been his mistake.

_'You bastard! You proud, insufferable -- you think yourself so --'_

Chagall's shrieks of fury echoed in his ears even now. He squeezed his eyes more tightly closed, folding his arms awkwardly across his face to block the feeble light filtering through the slits in the stone ...

_'Don't think you've got claim on this sword, Nordion. It belongs to me, the same way -- the exact same way -- you belong to me.'_   
_'Your bastard bloodline stole my birthright, and now you dare to defy me?'_

The irons were cool against his face, and oddly soothing. Perhaps he was developing fever, down here in the castle's underbelly. How long had it already been, for that matter? Days, surely. Weeks felt unlikely, but not impossible ... Feeling a sudden surge of necessity, Eldigan surged to his feet and stalked the length of his cell for the thousandth time, not to mindlessly count the paces but to press his face as close to the tiny, precious light-slits as he could manage.

The faintest touch of air felt somehow warming and cooling at once. Oh, yes, he was surely finally taking ill. Just a matter of time for anyone immured away long enough, after all.

_If I meet my end in here, then ..._

He let the thought die before he could finish it, even only whispered to himself. If he were to perish, then the Demon Blade fell to his son's hands --

If allowed to do so.

Were oaths broken when the one they bound was yet too young to understand?

_I cannot let it end like this. I must endure this -- trial -- until His Majesty chooses to relent; too much depends on it. I must. There is no choice._

But how? The iron's bite against his wrists mocked his resolve, made a liar of his honour. He could not act against his people's interests but neither could he turn against his liege ... caught on the horns of duty, Eldigan burned like the welts that striped his shoulders burned. And, failing all else, he once again stalked the length of his cell, over and over, knowing it pointless but having no other outlet. It cleared his head better than the stale water in the ewer, at least --

Light, true light, stopped him in his tracks, blinking like a startled rabbit. The cell door gaped wide; flanked by his gaolers, Chagall stared back at him like a displeased viper. In the king's hands was Mystletainn.

Eldigan's hands twitched. Chagall looked briefly savage, covered it with a sneer more than half barely-contained fright, and thrust the sheathed blade towards the unbalanced lord of Nordion.

"Grannvale's taking the capital. Your _friend_ of Chalphy is leading the invading army.

"Take it. Take it and make yourself presentable and _do your duty for your king_."

One gaoler stepped into the cell to remove the clawing irons, and -- as if in a dream -- Eldigan reached out to take back Mystletainn, bowed slowly to his king in acceptance of the command.

There was no other choice.


End file.
